Too Important to Postpone
by r4ven3
Summary: This is a surprise one shot. That is, I hadn't planned to write anything for New Year, but this idea emerged, and refused to go away. In a way this fic is just an excuse to create and flesh out another OC, one I haven't visited before. I hope you enjoy. And a big thank you to all those who are reviewing these occasional one shots of mine. They cannot continue forever.


The Grid, Thursday December 31, 2009:

Harry surveys his desk, satisfied that at the closing of another year, certainly one which has been his own personal _annus horribilis_, he is about to leave no stone unturned, no loose ends untied – at least, none which demands his immediate attention. He glances up to see Ruth watching him from her desk. Unlike him, she has several sheets of loose A4 paper laid out haphazardly on her desk, the end of her pen between her teeth. He smiles at her, and is happy when she removes her pen from her mouth to return his smile.

Intending to call her, Harry reaches for the receiver of his desk phone, when two events occur simultaneously, one of which is about to interrupt his best laid plans for the evening. As he is about to grasp the receiver, his phone rings sharply, jolting him from his private thoughts of the night ahead. When he glances through his office window his view of Ruth is blocked by the presence of Ros Myers, idly standing beside Ruth's desk. He sighs, grasping the receiver and lifting it to his ear. His caller can't possibly be the bearer of good news.

"Sir Harry," the voice says, "It's Phil from the front desk. There's a man here insisting he speak with you. I've already told him you're off duty, but he assures me his business with you is important."

"Does this man have a name?" Harry asks, seeing his plans crumbling with each word Phil utters.

Phil replies is hushed tones. "It's Charles Portman," he says. "He says his business is .. too important to postpone."

"I know no-one with that name."

Phil replies in a hoarse whisper. "He's around sixty or so, and well dressed. I get the impression he's used to having his will obeyed. Wait, he has something more ..." and Harry hears a hushed conversation in the background.

* * *

Ros is chatting to her in an uncharacteristically friendly manner, which immediately raises Ruth's suspicions. Being the mistress of multi-tasking, Ruth is able to listen to Ros at the same time as she watches Harry talking on the phone. She hopes his caller is more friend than foe, and that their evening out is not about to be scuppered by last minute responsibilities or dramas. Ros, noting the focus of Ruth's attention, turns to survey the Grid floor around her, seeking a distraction - someone or something to provide her with a brief moment of entertainment. Spying Tariq in the technology suite, she nods to Ruth, then leaves, making a beeline for Tariq. Ruth is sure she hears Ros say: _Enjoy your evening_, but that may be a trick of the Grid's acoustics.

Lifting her eyes again to Harry's office window, Ruth finds him watching her, but this time his expression has hardened. Harry is wearing his Section Head Face. Ruth sighs heavily, again hoping their evening out is not about to be ruined before it has begun. After all, it had been over a month ago that they had made plans for New Year's Eve.

_Ruth had had her epiphany in the early hours. It had crawled into her conscious mind from some deep, dark vault where she carries her more troubling thoughts and ideas, along with possibilities of truths which she'd never been quite brave enough to address. It was on that morning in early November that she admitted to herself that she carried more responsibility for George's death than Harry ever had. The quiet tears she'd shed as she stood under the shower were more for herself and Harry than they were for George. It was during that shower on that cold November morning that she admitted to herself that Harry bore no more blame than did George. Both men had been kidnapped, and placed in an impossible situation in which only one was destined to come out alive, and she was the common factor in the lives of each man._

_It took Ruth another two weeks before she shared her realisations with Harry. She'd joined him on the roof balcony, where the air had been crisp and cold, but not unbearable. The sun struggled to provide much needed warmth while she offered her own conclusions about the day George had died._

_Harry had nodded, but he hadn't smiled. He'd glanced her way, holding her eyes for a long moment. "So … what does this all mean now … all these months later?" he'd asked._

"_I thought .. I'd been wondering .." she had stammered, not quite sure if they were ready for what she was about to suggest. She had taken a deep breath, then blurted it out. "I was hoping we could have a drink together, or dinner, or … something. As I see it, we need to … reconnect."_

_She'd had to wait a long time for Harry to even react. For long minutes he'd stared stonily at the building opposite. Ruth understood him to be ruminating on how best to reply._

"_Do you think we're ready for this?" he asked at last, stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets._

"_I think we need to begin … somewhere .. some time. Neither of us is getting any younger."_

_Harry had turned towards her then, and she'd noted the softness in his eyes. "And you can guarantee that this time you'll not change your mind?"_

_So that was it. He was still hurt from back before she'd had to leave the country, and she'd turned down his suggestion of a second dinner. She could hardly blame him for that. "I'm a different person now, Harry. The difference being that I now know what I want."_

It had been that easy. In the weeks since that conversation they have shared a few quick drinks after work, then Harry had suggested they have dinner on New Year's Eve. "I have found the perfect place. It's only been open a few weeks. I've already made a booking for two," he'd added.

Ruth had wanted to be annoyed by his assuming she'd simply say yes, but she just couldn't; their bond, delicate and new, could not sustain her outrage.

"It's a small place near the river," he had said. "We can walk there from work."

For weeks Ruth had been looking forward to this dinner. It would be the next step for them, and a test of her commitment to her own deepest desires.

Her desk phone rings, and she knows that it's Harry, and that their dinner may about to be postponed. "I have a last minute meeting to attend on the second floor," he says quickly. Ruth listens, while her eyes hold his across the Grid floor. "I was wondering if you'd like to join me .. in this meeting."

"What about our dinner?" she asks, needing to know just how important this meeting is.

"Our dinner will still go ahead. It's far too important to postpone, but then .. so is this meeting."

"Who is it you're meeting?" she asks, hoping that no members of the JIC are involved.

"Charles Portman," he says, and Ruth suddenly understands. "Jo Portman's father."

* * *

They only have a few minutes to prepare. While striding along the corridor beside her, Harry had shared what he thought the meeting would be about. Perhaps the man wanted to give him a face-to-face bollocking, or (unwisely) take legal action against the intelligence service.

"Maybe he just wants answers," Ruth had suggested once they'd entered the lift, and the doors has slid shut. It was then that Harry reached out to grasp her hand, squeezing her fingers before letting go.

As they leave the lift, he turns to her and mouths, _thank you_. "You're my rock, Ruth," he says quietly. "You know, that, don't you?"

Given they have reached the door to the second floor meeting room, Ruth has no time to reply. In an unspoken contract between them they both know that her agreeing to accompany him to this meeting is not just about offering Harry support. Were she to bear witness to him being humiliated by this man, the resulting bond of intimacy would serve to draw them closer as a couple.

Inside the meeting room a man stands as they enter. He moves towards them, his hand out. He is a little taller than Harry, his pale grey suit matching his full head of thick grey hair. Ruth stares at his face, seeing little resemblance to Jo. Charles Portman has an even, chiselled face. Even at his age, perhaps five or more years older than Harry, he is still a strikingly handsome man. Beside her, Ruth feels Harry lift himself to his full height of five-feet-nine.

"I hope you don't mind," Harry says, glancing back at Ruth, who has stayed back while the two men greet one another. "I brought Ruth Evershed. She's my analyst, and Jo was -"

"A good friend of mine," Ruth finishes for him. "We had a close working relationship, and were also friends."

Charles Portman nods towards Ruth, but doesn't offer his hand for her to shake. Ruth could feel offended, but she chooses not to be. Such responses are self-indulgent.

The three of them sit – Ruth beside Harry, and Portman sitting opposite.

"You're probably wondering why I insisted on speaking to you tonight."

Harry nods, while Ruth keeps her eyes on Portman. "I imagine what you have to say is important," Harry says carefully, wondering how long he'd have to wait before the bollocking begins.

"I'm here now because my wife and I are flying out first thing in the morning. We're both overdue for a holiday, and so we're heading for somewhere warm. She's always wanted to visit Brazil, so we plan to take a month, maybe six weeks away from our normal routine. At the time Joanna died Trish and I were separated. It was only a few months ago that we reunited. So you see, the deepest tragedy of our lives has brought us back together. Every cloud, etcetera."

Neither Ruth nor Harry know how to respond to that, so they say nothing.

Charles Portman looks down at his very well manicured fingernails, before he again lifts his eyes to Harry. "I feel the need to apologise to you, Mr Pearce, for the way I spoke to you when you rang me after Joanna was killed."

"That's not necessary. I understood perfectly -"

"But I behaved badly towards you, and I don't like leaving harsh words festering between us." Having been bawled out by many people in his life, Harry silently appreciates this man's attempt to make amends. "And then there was the visit by Ms Myers," Portman adds.

"Ros Myers visited you? She _spoke_ to you?" This is the first Harry has heard of this.

"You didn't know?" Portman asks, clearly surprised.

Harry shakes his head before turning to Ruth. "Did you know about this?" he asks her.

"No, and had I, I would have told you." Ruth turns her attention back to their visitor.

Charles Portman nods. "It was a couple of months after … and she rang my wife, who arranged for us both to receive Ms Myers at our house."

"Your _house_?" Harry can't believe this. Ros, the dark horse. "In Guildford?"

"Yes. In Guildford. She needed to speak to us about the circumstances which led to Joanna's death. She did mention she was probably breaching the Official Secrets Act, and asked us both to never mention her visit to the remainder of our family. Of course we complied. Both Trish and I needed answers. We were hungry for answers, no matter how awful, or upsetting."

"Jo was very brave," Ruth says, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Yes," Jo's father says, holding Ruth's eyes, gratitude clear in his own. "She was. So you see, to discover from a total stranger that our Joanna had that level of courage, well .. both her mother and I are comforted that we'd reared a child so strong, so morally present."

"I have something I need to tell you," Harry begins. If this man can be this honest with them, then he must respond in kind.

"I know that you gave the order to send her down to … the bunker where she died, and I'm not about to ask you would you have done that had you known in advance that she would be shot dead. That wouldn't be fair."

Harry tips his head slightly to one side. "I need you to know that given the information I had at the time, my actions, my … orders to Jo were reasonable."

Charles Portman nods. "I understand that now. Ros Myers told us everything she knew, including your part in the sequence of events. By the time Ms Myers left I was incensed. At that time I continued to focus all my considerable rage upon you. I even thought of putting in a call to you, but Patricia convinced me to sleep on it. It was she who convinced me that knowing how important Joanna's role had been, and how much she'd enjoyed her job … well, it was selfish of me to tarnish that memory with righteous anger."

Privately both Ruth and Harry are thinking that this man had every right to whatever righteous anger he deems fit, but they are prepared to accept and respect his point of view.

"I have never before had a parent seek me out as you have," Harry says quietly. "I appreciate your -"

"Not at all. I could never have said any of this in the few months following Joanna's death, but the passage of time grants perspective. Do you have children, Mr Pearce?"

"Two adults, yes, but if one of them had died as your daughter had, I'm sure I'd carry my rage forever."

"You'd be surprised what we humans are capable of. In the end it's much easier – and healthier - to let go of rage than it is to carry it around inside you, from where it will devour you from the inside."

"You have given me a gift," Harry says quietly, still unsure he is worthy of this man's forgiveness, and he's certain that were he in Charles Portman's shoes, he'd not be capable of what he has witnessed on this night.

"Me also," Ruth says, at last free to offer Harry her support.

"Good, good," Portman says, showing even teeth as he smiles his first smile since they had joined him in the meeting room. "My trip here has clearly been worth it. The turning point for me, Mr Pearce, was to put myself in your shoes, and for me, that provided all the perspective I needed." His gaze takes in both Harry, and then Ruth. "I'm not fond of London. I visit only when I have to. Our middle son, Ed, lives here. He's an actor." On the word, `actor', Portman lifts one eyebrow. "Patricia and I feel we should visit him on his chosen turf at least twice a year." He suddenly stands, then pushes in his chair with an air of finality. "My wife is waiting for me. We're spending tonight in a hotel, and then tomorrow we fly out."

Ruth and Harry, taking their cues from their visitor, both stand to accompany him to the door. After the door closes behind him Ruth grasps Harry's hand, squeezing his fingers. "Thank you," he says quietly.

"For what?"

"For being here .. with me."

"It's where I belong, Harry."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Ruth and Harry are walking to the restaurant where a month earlier Harry had booked a table for two. The cloud cover is low, and rain appears imminent, hopefully holding off until after midnight.

They walk in near silence, each reviewing the meeting with Jo Portman's father. Ruth had slipped her hand into his, and he had grasped her small hand as though he would never again let it go. Harry had only grunted when she'd talked to him, mostly about the mundane – the traffic, the absence of rain, what the rest of their team might be doing – so eventually she took his cue, and remained silent.

Almost.

"What is the restaurant called?" she'd asked at last, curiosity getting the better of her. She'd looked up at Harry to see him smiling.

"There it is," he says gently, "the building with the wrought iron balcony."

Ruth stops in the middle of the pavement, her eyes shining. She looks up to see Harry watching her. "It's called _Ruth's_."

"It is. When I heard it had opened, I made a booking for us, even before I'd asked you. I hope you don't mind."

Were she to be upset she'd have to be out of her mind. They are standing on the pavement together, each watching the other, Ruth beaming up at him. Harry takes her smile as a green light. He bends down to place a gentle kiss on her lips, his free hand cupping her cheek.

_Mind?_ Of course she doesn't mind, but she might mind were there not plenty more kisses to follow this one. "How can I possibly mind?" she says before sliding her free hand around his neck to kiss him again.

Kissing over, they continue along the pavement. "Aren't we late?" she asks. "Won't they have given our table to someone else?"

Harry glances down at her fondly. How like Ruth to be worrying about the details. "I rang them earlier, asking them to hold the table until nine-thirty, so we're fine."

"And if Portman had gone on and on .. what then?"

"Then … we might have had to have dinner at my place." Ruth notices the shine in Harry's eyes.

"So you had a Plan B," she says, as they reach the front door of _Ruth's_.

"I had a Plan B."

"What had you prepared for dinner?" They both stand aside while a couple leaves the restaurant.

"I can't possibly tell you that," he says calmly.

Ruth nods, before squeezing his hand. If they had lost their booking at _Ruth's_ Harry may well have planned to take her to his house, but she's certain there'd be no dinner prepared. No doubt his plan involved a whole other kind of menu. Cunning sod. Wonderful, extraordinary, shrewd man. She wouldn't have him any other way.

"I don't know about you, but I need to eat," she says, dropping Harry's hand, and stepping through the doorway ahead of him.

"Whatever you say, Ruth," Harry says to himself, following her into the restaurant.


End file.
